Last Man Standing

by Cindy Gerard

  “Ty? Your copilot is your brother?”

  “The kid’s grown up,” Brown said with a note of pride in his voice.

  “One of you had to,” Joe ribbed.

  “Better him than me,” Brown agreed, taking no offense. “He’s runs his own air cargo business out of Key West.”

  “Legit?” As opposed to Brown’s Primetime Air Cargo business, which had a tendency to blur the line between legitimate and shady.

  Again, Brown grinned. “Like I said. Better him than me.” Then he got down to business. “The head honcho in the tower’s gonna have a backache tonight, from sitting on that wad of bills I tucked in his wallet. As soon as I say that we’re ready to rumble, he’ll clear the runway and we are outta here.”

  “It’s really that easy?” Stephanie asked, clearly stunned by the lax security and the favors money could buy.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Brown headed for the gate. “Okay, lady and gent. See what you can do about looking German, would ya?”

  17

  Stephanie walked across the concrete toward the waiting business jet, her heart beating so fast that she seriously thought she might pass out. Heat hit the ramp from above and ricocheted back up in her face like solar flares. Add the exhaust from the planes and her concern for Joe, and it all almost brought her to her knees.

  Joe hadn’t been on his feet this long since they’d run to the new safe house yesterday. And today had been hard on him physically as well as emotionally. She had to concentrate on getting both her and Joe the thirty yards across the ramp to the plane that shot heat out of its twin engines, stacking wavy mirages for several yards behind it.

  “God, she’s a pretty sight.” Joe stopped and stared at the G-550. “But those aren’t our tail numbers.”

  “Nope,” Brown said. “Had a special paint job done just for this trip before we left Buenos Aires. Wouldn’t do for whoever’s on your ass to find out your employer sent a plane to haul your carcass home. Might be a tip-off, don’t you think?

  “I filed the flight plan using the bogus tail numbers as ID. Paint’s supposed to fade within forty-eight hours. If my calcs are right, that should be about three hours before we touch down in D.C., where they are expecting the BOI corporate jet. Don’t you just love subterfuge?”

  “That I do,” Joe agreed.

  When he started walking again, Stephanie could see that he was struggling. She hooked her arm around his waist and knew when he leaned heavily against her that he was grateful for the support.

  “You gonna make it, or am I going to have to haul your candy-ass up those steps?” Brown’s brows were pinched together in concern as he stopped at the bottom of the jet’s air stairs.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Joe said, his breath labored. “I’m fine. You just worry about flying this bird outta here.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n Bly.” Brown gave him a smart salute, but made certain, Stephanie noticed, that he was right behind Joe as he laboriously climbed the short set of stairs.

  “How bad is he?” Brown asked when he’d jogged back down to collect the luggage. He motioned Stephanie to walk up ahead of him.

  “Better than he was.” She stepped into the luxury cabin, grateful for the cool, conditioned air inside. Joe was up front, saying hello to Mike’s brother and thanking him for signing on.

  “Today’s been rough. He’s exhausted.”

  “I’m thinking he’s not the only one who’s had a big day.”

  Oh, my. When he turned those laser blue eyes on her and hit her with the full effect of that stunning bad-boy smile, Stephanie understood why the guys called him Primetime. Hollywood gorgeous, he could easily headline any prime-time show. Add in the rebel earring, the tall, dark, and built component, and this guy had drool factor written all over him.

  And when Joe stepped back into the cabin, a younger version of Mike following him, she couldn’t help but appreciate the gene pool responsible for creating these two stunningly handsome men.

  “Ma’am,” Ty said, extending his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  “We can chitchat once we’re airborne.” Brown retracted the air stairs, then secured the hatch, and the noise level immediately dropped. “Let’s get buckled in, okay? Soon as I get clearance, we’re gonna boogie out of here faster than rainwater running through a downspout.”

  Correctly reading the “waiting for the other shoe to fall” look on Stephanie’s face, he added sweetly, “Relax, darlin’. I’m gonna get you home. Your work is officially over.”

  The sudden burn of tears caught her completely off guard.

  “Been a rough ride, yes?” Brown laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  She laughed, part nerves, part relief, and a whole lot of exhaustion. “It’s been a piece of cake.”

  “Atta girl. You look like your brother, by the way,” he added, his deep voice turning soft. “Great kid.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that Mike might have known Bryan. But if he’d provided transport for the TFM team, of course he would have known all the guys.

  “Seat belt,” he reminded her, and headed for the cockpit.

  She eased down beside Joe, who had already collapsed into one of the plush seats. His seat belt was buckled. His eyes were closed. If he wasn’t already asleep he soon would be, even though the whine of the engines was loud enough to wake a hibernating bear.

  She buckled up, then sat there a moment, soaking up the realization that they’d made it, that they were finally home free. With a satisfied sigh, she looked out the window.

  And did a double take, not wanting to accept what she saw.

  Four Range Rovers barreled down the road that ran parallel to the terminal. One by one they braked and cut hard rights into the terminal drive.

  “Oh, God,” she muttered.

  Joe came immediately to attention. “What?”

  “I think we have a problem.”

  “Never trust a man who’s willing to take a bribe,” Brown grumbled to Joe, then opened his mike again. They were sitting on the ramp, ready to taxi into takeoff position onto the runway. “Lungi ground, I repeat, this is Gulfstream 174GG, requesting taxi for takeoff. Please advise.”

  Joe stood in the open cockpit door, hands braced above him on the bulkhead.

  “Hold your position. Please stand by for clearance,” the air traffic controller replied.

  Mike swore under his breath.

  “I’d say the jig is up,” Ty said with a grim look.

  “Someone got to him, all right,” Mike agreed. “Someone who scares him more than the prospect of me storming that tower and ripping him a new asshole.”

  Joe searched the runway. The traffic was light to nonexistent. Two commercial jets and one corporate jet rimmed the apron, one refueling, one taxiing in, one positioning for takeoff ahead of them. The clearance hold was as bogus as a three-dollar bill.

  “Tell him you’ll find your own room, so they’d better clear a lane if they want to avoid a major catastrophe.”

  “Been there, done that already, good buddy. I’m still getting the ol’ stall. Got any other ideas?”

  “They’re sending police out onto the ramp now,” Stephanie called.

  Joe turned to see her twisted around in her seat, looking out the window on the terminal side.

  “At least twenty,” she added, giving them a play by play. “All heavily armed.”

  Joe whipped his head back to the windshield and scanned the airport. “What’s going on over there?” He hitched his chin toward an area cordoned off with yellow caution tape.

  “New runway in progress. Looks to be about eighty percent complete,” Mike said, then grinned up over his shoulder at Joe.

  “How many feet do you need?”

  Brown shrugged. “We’re rollin’ light, so around five thousand. Maybe a little less.”

  Joe looked down the new construction. “What do you think? Is there enough concrete to make this happen?”

  “Only one way to find ou
t.”

  “Do it,” Joe said.

  “Ty?” Mike deferred to his brother.

  “I go where the plane goes.”

  “Good answer.” Mike glanced over his shoulder at Joe. “Make sure she’s buckled in tight, then strap yourself in. It may be a rough ride.”

  Joe hadn’t even gotten back to his seat when the jet started rolling.

  “What’s he going to do?” Stephanie asked, wide-eyed.

  “Tower won’t give us clearance. So we’re going to inaugurate the new runway.”

  She blinked in confusion, then looked out the window. When she saw the partially completed landing strip, lined by construction equipment and fenced off with caution tape, she paled.

  Joe grabbed her hand. “This is no hill for a climber, and Brown’s scaled some big ones. We’ll be airborne in no time.”

  She laced her fingers with his and turned to look out her window again. “No time is exactly what we’ve got. The Range Rovers are lined up behind a padlocked gate. Looks like they’re waiting for someone to unlock it and let them out onto the ramp.”

  “Four-wheelers on our six!” Joe yelled, letting Mike know things had just gotten more dicey.

  The powerful engines whined as Mike throttled forward and they rolled faster down the ramp.

  Stephanie flinched and tightened her grip on Joe’s fingers. “Oh, God. Is that what I think it is?”

  If she thought the green glowing tracer fire zipping past the windows meant they were under fire, she was dead right. They’d doubtless pulled out the belt-fed machine guns, too.

  Joe cupped his hands and yelled toward the cockpit, “Taking fire!”

  “No shit, Sherlock!” Brown made a sharp right turn toward the unfinished runway, lined them up, and shoved the power levels to max.

  Joe glanced out his window as they picked up speed and saw two Range Rovers speeding toward them.

  “They’re getting closer!” Stephanie yelled.

  They needed a minimum speed of 140 knots to get airborne, and it would take about forty-five seconds to get there. “They’ll be eating our dust soon enough,” he assured her.

  He saw the muzzle flashes of at least four rifles pumping out on full auto, and knew that the same action was happening on Stephanie’s side of the plane.

  The new runway was rough but level, so the surface wasn’t a problem. Length might be the problem.

  He’d been aboard this bird dozens of times, and he had a pretty good idea that they might run out of runway before the twin engines reached liftoff velocity. Add the hammering they were taking from the rifle fire, and their odds of reaching critical speed before one of those yahoos hit something vital were roughly the same as Brown going five minutes without flirting with a woman.

  He glanced at Stephanie. Her eyes were closed, her head was pressed back against the headrest, her entire body was wound spring-tight. She’d ditched the wig and her hair tumbled softly around her shoulders. Her breath came hard and fast, her breasts rising and falling beneath the clingy silk; her wrap skirt had hitched halfway up her thighs and fell open almost to her panties on her right side.

  She was scared but steady, and the sexiest damn woman he’d ever seen. Jesus—they were spinning straight toward a disaster that might end it for all of them, and all he could think about was getting her naked.

  And getting her safely home, where he could figure out how to love her the way she deserved to be loved. He glanced forward. Less and less runway and more and more mountain peaks lay dead ahead. One of those AKs could pierce a fuel tank. The machine guns could blow a tire. They could burst into flames any second, or lose control and do a rollover.

  “Stephanie.”

  She opened her eyes and met his.

  “I need you to know—”

  “No,” she cut in sharply. “No last words. I refuse to believe—”

  She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening with hope. “You feel that?”

  He grinned and exhaled a breath so huge it made his ribs hurt. “We’re airborne.”

  “Oh, my God. He did it!”

  Joe nodded, still smiling. “He sure as hell did.”

  “Hoo weee!” Brown whooped from the cockpit. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a cigarette. Hot damn. That was almost better than sex.”

  The jet suddenly jolted, jerking them forward against their seat belts before leveling out again.

  The oxygen masks bounced down from the ceiling, dancing on the end of their tubes. An alarm bell started clanging, then the jet took an abrupt nosedive.

  Stephanie’s wild gaze shot to Joe’s. “What’s happening?”

  Joe looked toward the cockpit, saw Mike frantically pushing levers, and had a real bad feeling that he didn’t want to know.

  18

  Greer Dalmage sat behind his desk at his suite of offices in Freetown. One hand gripped the arm of his chair. In the other he clenched the small prescription bottle of nitroglycerin, waiting for it to ease the crippling hold of the angina spasm. His shirt was damp with perspiration beneath his suit jacket. His chest burned and clutched around his heart like an iron fist.

  The attacks were coming more and more frequently. His fault. He needed to control them better. He forced a calm, level breath. He could not panic. Not about the angina. Not about Bangura’s ineptness. Not about what would happen to him if Joe Green escaped Freetown and ferreted out the whole truth.

  He would be ruined. Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d set into play over the past fifteen years—all of it would be gone.

  He would also be dead. The men he owed both money and favors wouldn’t hesitate to extract payment from his flesh.

  All because of one man. His only mistake, his only mistake, had been keeping Green alive for too long.

  A soft rap sounded on his closed door, then Ms. Foster poked her head inside. “I know you said to hold all calls, but Lieutenant Bangura is on line one for you, sir. He insists that you will want to take his call.”

  “Thank you Ms. Foster. Put him through.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” She hesitated at the door, her usually dour expression softened by concern. “But are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Please close the door on your way out.”

  “Very good, sir.” Looking unconvinced, she backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Speak,” he said after picking up the receiver.

  “It is done.” Bangura’s voice brimmed with jovial conviction.

  Greer slumped back in his chair. A relief so visceral, so sweet, sent a hum of excitement washing through him that was almost sexual. “How? Where?”

  “We found them attempting to escape at Lungi airport. My men did not let that happen.”

  “They’re dead, then?”

  “As you specified, yes.”

  He hadn’t succeeded this long without covering all of his bases. “I want to see the bodies.”

  Bangura hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I am sorry. That is not possible. There was a crash. The bodies were burned.”

  Greer told himself that the trace of doubt flicking in and out of his mind was a carryover from Bangura’s prior mistake.

  “Rest assured,” Bangura continued, “there remains no trace that either of the Americans were ever here.”

  Saidu hung up the phone, rose stiffly from his desk, and walked across the room. He flicked off the light and locked his office door behind him. Then he left for home. Where he would sit alone in the dark. And drink.

  There would be fallout from his actions today. He didn’t know when. He didn’t know what. But when Dalmage learned the whole truth, there would be fallout.

  “Stephanie. Wake up. You need to get back in your seat and buckle up. We’re going to start our approach soon.”

  Stephanie stretched and yawned, then forced herself to sit up. Joe sat on the edge of the seat opposite hers. The heaviness around his eyes told her he’d been resting, too.

 
“Did you sleep?” she asked, stretching.

  “Apparently.” He scrubbed both hands over the stubble shadowing his face. “Last I knew, we were less than halfway home.”

  Home. The word never sounded so good. Especially after the scare they’d had.

  “Relax,” Brown had shouted from the cockpit a few minutes after takeoff. “Bastards must have punctured the fuselage back near the equipment bay. We’re good. Air cabin pressure’s fine. Oxygen is fine.”

  They hadn’t lost an engine. They hadn’t lost their hydraulics. And he didn’t need to turn around or make an emergency landing at another airport, he assured them after a thorough check of all of his systems.

  Their relief had been outdistanced only by fatigue. And they weren’t done yet. Although the direct flight on the G-550 cut the normal flight time by eight hours and they were almost home, they still were a long way from finishing what Joe had started.

  “We can go to my apartment,” Stephanie said as she buckled up in the seat beside Joe.

  “Too far,” he said.

  “Hotel?” she suggested. Mike and Ty planned to book rooms at a hotel near the airport while they waited for the repairs on the G-550 to be completed.

  He smiled. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Joe looked weary and tense behind the wheel as they sped across D.C. in the black SUV that had been waiting for them in long-term parking. While Mike dealt with scheduling the G-550 for repairs—a tough trick at midnight, with skeleton crews on duty—and since it was a nippy twenty degrees and Stephanie and Joe were dressed for the heat they’d just left, Ty had trotted out to the lot and brought the car around.

  She was wrapped tight in a warm winter parka—there’d been one for each of them waiting in the SUV—and still Stephanie shivered. “Rafe thought of everything. Even the parkas.”

  “Those were most likely B.J.’s doing,” Joe said as he checked his rearview, switched lanes, and made a right.

  Stephanie recognized the neighborhood. “We’re going to Gabe and Jenna’s?”

  He nodded.

  Of all the guys on the BOI team, Joe was probably the closest with Gabe. They were both big men, both quiet men. And while they’d all been through the fire, these two probably carried the most scars: Gabe’s physical—he’d lost a leg to shrapnel when he’d saved Jenna from a bomb blast in Buenos Aires—and Joe’s emotional.